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The Sun Magazine

The Sun Interview

Changing Things

An Interview With David Spangler

Love is more than just an emotion from the heart. It is clear thinking. It is the right use of the intellect. It is playfulness. It is humor. It is detachment. It is being glad to be a human being upon the Earth in this moment of history.

Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

A Lucidist Manifesto

I. Writers may write in clear English, without needlessly opaque, spectacular and nonlinear associations. Code obfuscates; poetic code obfuscates utterly.

Living Materialism

As we move our consciousness into consideration of the New Age, we are faced with a need to reevaluate our understanding of spirit and of matter. This has already been brought to our attention within this century by research done in the field of physics, indicating that what we used to call “matter” is in itself a variation of energy, and these seemingly so solid objects upon which we base our physical life are actually patterns of energy moving in relationship to each other across vast microcosmic distances.

Saying Goodbye To Warren

My friend Warren was killed in a car accident a few weeks ago in Spain. He was leaving the World Cup games in a rented car, and he wasn’t driving. When I heard he was killed in a car I presumed he had been driving — since he had been smashing the front and back end of his and his friends’ cars for years. He would drink a lot and then he would drive — the accident was just the last part of an equation. When you’re drinking, even a car looks friendly. It’s not, though; it’s worse than cancer, at least at Warren’s age.


Around The Rugged Rock

When Rex Belknap quit his wife and their assorted little Belknaps, it was another woman who beckoned him away. Strange how some men seem to play out the whole of their lives in the laps of women, leaping from apron to apron only to lose themselves again in the ruffles. Ah, but stay your judgement until you hear. For it was not some glossy jetsam washed up on his shore, not a Mary Flirt, the mermaid, come with siren song and hips ashimmer to win his heart. It was old Gramma Belknap, long dead, long lamented, now swum up from his memory. A Joan of Arc, a Florence Chadwick, she crawled her way into his imagination, recaptured it, and from there beseiged his soul. And the white sea unfurled in ruffles all around.

*NOTE: Original copies of this issue are no longer available. Unbound, laser-printed copies will be provided for print orders.

Readers Write

A Dream I Won't Forget

Walking away from an outdoor tourist-trap cafe, I wander a winding path into thick woods. The surroundings take on a magical air, light sparkling in the aces between the leaves. The path dips below the water level of a pond contained by a thick, twisted mass of roots, reminiscent of cypress. The wood is beautifully grained, looking like a painstakingly drawn etching, very much three-dimensional and real.

Personal Stories By Our Readers ▸


“Maybe you’re right, boss. It all depends on the way you look at it. . . . Look, one day I had gone to a little village. An old grandfather of ninety was busy planting an almond tree. ‘What, grandad! I exclaimed. ‘Planting an almond tree?’ And he, bent as he was, turned round and said: ‘My son, I carry on as if I should never die.’ I replied: ‘And I carry on as if I was going to die any minute.’ Which of us was right, boss?”

Nikos Kazantzakis, Zorba the Greek

More Quotations ▸
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